Ides of March
by J. Marguerite
Summary: So, reality was wrong. Reality is almost always wrong.


AN: I wrote this roughly twelve months ago and posted it on Livejournal. Although I no longer use (I find it to be very difficult to deal with, and quite frankly, I'm appalled at some of the things posted here), I thought, well, why not, I may as well post something here. So here you go. I know I haven't used this site for close to three years, and I much prefer Livejournal, and hell, I'm not really in this fandom anymore, I hope you enjoy this.

Songs mentioned are 'Adrian' by Jewel from her Pieces of You album, and 'Honey and the Moon' by Joseph Arthur from his Redemtpion's Son album.

Regards,

J.

_Doctor said, 'I'm sorry not much I can do'_

_The air was so still_

_His eyes did not blink_

_Oh, Adrian, come out and play_

_Bang._

House woke with a start. His eyes locked onto the ceiling, spots flickering in front of his vision as his head spun and chest heaved with shock of his sudden awakening. Licking his lips, tasting the salty flavour of sweat, Greg slowly propped himself up on one elbow, pushing his body up and squinting through the darkness to the door. A sliver of yellow light shone under the crack. Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he reached to the ground, groping until he found the cool wood that was his cane. Pushing back the blankets, he eased his right leg over, then his left, and stood, hand still on the hook of his cane. Walking towards the door, he twisted the knob and prepared himself for the bright light that was sure to be on the other side. Squinting as he crossed the threshold, he near-blindly made his way to the corner, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. Pausing at the corner, hand on the wall he called out.

'Jimmy?'

'Hey, House.'

Greg opened an eye, only mildly surprised that Wilson was standing a foot away from him. Blinking rapidly, he rubbed his eyes and pushed past the man. 'What time is it?' he asked as he glanced at the clock.

'Five-thirty.'

'Huh.' To the kitchen, wincing as his feet touched the cold tiles, toes curling in. Hand on the fridge, taking out the leftovers from last night's dinner, and it's all very methodical by this point. Bowl in the microwave; push a few buttons, and when he turned his head, Jimmy's sitting by the counter, a sleepy smile on his face, hand holding his head up. Silent and watching, and Greg's got a picture of him like that tattooed in his brain, because Jimmy's been sitting like that every morning for the past six months.

'Julie called last night.'

'Huh.' Grabbing a tea towel, Greg opened the microwave door and took out the hot bowl of spaghetti bolognaise. Setting it down on the sink, he peeled back the cling wrap and grabbed a fork.

'She wants us to come by and grab a few of my belongings. She left a message on the machine.'

Jabbing the fork into the meal, he found a chunk of ice. Putting the wrap back in place, he placed it back in the microwave and reset it. Glancing into the living room, Greg looked towards the answering machine. Vaguely remembering the phone ringing the night before, he shrugged. A step towards the kettle, and Greg muttered 'okay' under his breath. The kettle soon whistled, and he poured the water into two mugs, hardly paying attention to the way he barely remembered dumping the coffee and sugar into both. Head still foggy with sleep, he decided as the microwave beeped. Setting one of the mugs down in front of Wilson, Greg took a sip from his. The coffee hit came hard, the hot liquid burning his throat.

'I'm going to have a shower,' Wilson announced, moving fluidly off his seat. Greg nodded, setting his mug down. Wilson headed towards the bathroom, and Greg closed his eyes as the sound of running water came. Wiping his hands on his flannel pants, he took the spaghetti from the microwave, pulled back the wrap and dug his fork in. The first bite took him surprise because it was still cold.

'I hate Mondays.'

'It's Tuesday,' Chase replied somewhere behind House. House shrugged, stretched out his back, and leaned against the counter in the conference room.

'Just stating the obvious. But it's funny because so many people claim to suffer 'Monday-itis', even our favorite new patient. Her left lung collapsed last night. That's gotta mean something, healthy lungs don't just collapse.'

Foreman took a glance at the file in his hand. 'X-ray came back fine.' he commented, flipping a sheet. 'Though her CT scan isn't looking too good.'

'Good, go with that.' House pushed off the counter and crossed to the whiteboard. 'Though that does nothing to explain her sudden coughing up more than phlegm. Go chuck her on a nebulizerif she isn't already on one, and see if she's anemic at all.' Starting towards the door, House paused in the doorway. 'See if she has a fireplace, that might explain the initial stomach pain.'

'How- '

Cameron's question was cut off as House let the door swing shut behind him. He'd made it towards the first corner when his name echoed down the corridor.

'House!'

Ignoring Cuddy, House turned his head in the opposite direction. Cuddy called out to him again, before stepping in front of him.

'House!'

'Sorry, changed my name. It's now "El Coolio Big Cheese." Rolls off the tongue much easier.' Stepping around Cuddy, House kept his eyes forward. He heard the sound of Cuddy chasing after him, her heels echoing down the hallway.

'There's a conference on Saturday, you need to go. It's for the heads of departments. It would have been scheduled for another day, but Dr. Jacobs doesn't come back until Friday night, and- '

'Sorry, no can do,' House interrupted, stopping in front of the elevator. 'Gotta help Wilson grab the rest of his crap from his house.'

Cuddy narrowed her brow, lips twisting slightly. 'House… how long are you going to keep this up for?'

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open. Entering, he turned, hand hovering over he button pad. Cuddy tilted her head, placing a hand on her hip.

'As long as I get to avoid budget meetings.'

Before the doors could close, she slipped through, standing beside House. Turning her head to him, she raised an eyebrow. 'You have clinic duty.'

'Really?' Gawking at her, he pretended to be shocked. 'Wow. And all this time I thought Cameron was going to do it for me. Pretty surprising, huh?'

Reaching over, Cuddy pushed the ground level button and the doors slid shut.

'You need to stop avoiding everything. Take control of your life.'

'I have damn good control over my life.'

Sighing, Cuddy tucked her hair behind her ear as the doors slid back open. Heading out of the elevator, she paused, waiting for House. 'Just do your job. It won't hurt.'

Rolling his eyes, House begrudgingly headed to the clinic. 'You're not going in my will, now,' he called over his shoulder to a sighing Cuddy. 'I hope your breasts smother you when you run your car into a wall.'

Greg poked at the carrots in his salad, moving them around, pretending he was even interested in them. Looking up from the plastic dish, he stretched his back and yawned. His early awakening was finally getting to him, and he knew he'd be going to bed early that night. Massaging a cramp in his shoulder after he set his fork down, Greg cast his eyes around the cafeteria, ignoring everything and everyone until he saw the mop of hair he knew only as Wilson's. Waving his arm over his head, House jerked his chin when Wilson finally looked over to him.

'You look exhausted,' he commented as he sat down. House grunted.

'I feel it.' Stabbing a carrot with his fork, Greg made a show of raising it to his mouth and biting through it. Wilson just raised an eyebrow and snatched a tomato off House's plate and popped it in his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, House studied his plate and looked off to the side. 'When do you want to go pick up your stuff on Saturday?'

Wilson rested his head on the heel of his hand. 'I dunno. Whenever.' He drifted his hand over the tabletop and opened his mouth to speak, when Cameron called out.

'House.' Walking briskly to where House sat, Cameron held a file out. 'We did CT scan. We also did a bronchoscopy and a spiromtry.'

Taking the file from her hand, House rolled his eyes at Wilson. 'She's so desperate to talk to me sometimes she has to interrupt my lunch.'

Wilson just snorted, sipping his coffee from the Styrofoam cup. Cameron eyed House and crossed her arms over her chest.

'Her blood tests are currently being done in the lab, but there's really nothing to indicate she's- '

House cut her off by standing, shoving the file under one arm. 'Right, right, you want me to pay attention to the patient. I get it.'

Moving past her, he nodded his goodbye to Wilson. Cameron just shook her head, taking hold of House's tray and dumping it in the bin when she left the cafeteria. Moving briskly behind him, she quickly stepped in time, moving towards the elevator.

'Her lungs are deteriorating and there's no indication why. She only fourteen, she doesn't smoke, doesn't frequent bars- she's a ki- House, what're you doing?'

House had stopped at the front of the clinic, rattling his Vicodin bottle. 'I need a top up.' Turning around, he squinted in the direction they had just come from. Cameron headed back towards him, hands on her hips.

'Her mother smoked when she was in her first trimester. She didn't know she was pregnant.'

'That's great, I'm going to see if I can still catch Wilson and get him to write me a prescription.'

'House!'

He turned to Cameron, raising an eyebrow. 'You know, that can get really annoying after a while. The whole… screeching cat sound.'

Cameron cast her eyes to the ceiling before holding her hands out. 'Wilson… he can wait. Can we just go to the patient now?'

House eyed her, frowning, before pushing past her and heading to the doors.

'Where're you going?' she called after him.

'I need to go… think,' he replied, mumbling mostly to himself. He felt Cameron's intent stare on his back, even after he passed through the doors.

'House.'

Lifting his head from the computer screen, House raised an eye to Foreman, then back to his game of solitaire. It was late Friday afternoon and he was planning Saturday and how he could avoid speaking to Julie as much as possible.

'What?' Clicking on the ace of spades, he dragged it next to the ace of hearts as Foreman entered the office.

'Just a word.'

'Mm.' A chair dragged across the ground, and there was a soft thump as the younger doctor sat himself down. House barely paid him another glance as he continued on with his game.

'You need to talk,' Foreman finally said. House narrowed his brow and clicked on the jack of clubs and dragged it towards the queen of diamonds.

'You're the one who wanted a word,' House mumbled. He heard Foreman sigh and House dragged the two of hearts to the ace.

'Everyone's concerned,' Foreman finally stated.

'About who? Chase and that atrocious shirt he's been prancing around in?' House finally broke his gaze from the computer. 'I didn't tell him to wear it.' Reaching for his bottle of Vicodin from his pocket, he popped the cap. Taking one, he swallowed it down with surprising difficulty and set the container down, hearing the last of the pills rattle about.

Foreman cast his eyes to the ceiling. 'House, I'm being serious. It's not… healthy.'

'Maybe not.' House replied, running his tongue over his teeth. 'But it stops me from firing shots from the clock tower, doesn't it?'

It only occurred to him after the words left his lips that those were the words Wilson had spoken months ago. Without thinking much of it, he returned to his game.

'How's the patient?' he said after a momentary pause.

'Can we stick to the topic at hand?'

'Sure. The topic being the patient.' House squinted at the screen- he had nowhere else to go. The game was a losing one. Foreman moved out of the chair and headed towards the door.

'There's no improvement,' he mumbled as he left.

House looked up. 'Huh.' Casting his eyes to the Vicodin, he shoved it in his pocket and moved to get up.

Wilson popped his head into the room. 'Wanna get lunch?'

Pushing back from his desk, House eased himself up, holding onto his cane. 'Sure.' Moving around his desk, he headed towards James, pushing past him. Wilson soon fell into step with him, their shoulders brushing, Wilson's white coat floating around his knees.

'Somebody's going to need to tell the mother,' Cameron murmured as House walked in through the door after having lunch with Wilson. Quiet fell across the room but House ignored it and crossed to the sink, picking lettuce from between his teeth.

'Tell the mother what? That her daughter needs a new set of lungs?'

Foreman watched him as House poured water into a mug and stirred. 'Sarah's going to need a lung transplant… but she wouldn't survive the operation. And donors are next to impossible to find.'

Crossing to the table, House sipped the coffee and sat down. Grabbing the file on the table, he flipped it open. Reading a few lines, his head jerked up and stared over at Cameron.

'Emphysema? I thought I was the one making the diagnosis here.'

'You… haven't been…' Chase drifted off and stood from where he sat, moving to the sink. House eyed him suspiciously, turning in his seat.

'I haven't been what? Kissing you goodnight? Tucking you into bed?'

'You haven't been very interested in the case,' Cameron explained delicately, taking the file from House and tucking it under her arm. 'It was easier if we just went on without you.'

'And who gave you authority to do that?' House growled, rising to his feet.

'Cuddy,' Foreman shot back, standing from the opposite end of the table. House directed his stare to him, lips twisted into a grimace. 'She said if you weren't interested then to let you go.'

'Now why would she go and say something like that?'

Foreman hesitated but before he could speak, Chase interrupted. 'Cameron was saying you needed Vicodin. I'll get it for you.'

Cameron and Foreman eyed Chase as House rounded the table. 'See, if you try just a little bit harder, you could wind up like Chase here. Of course, that means bad floral prints and girlish hair, but the good comes with the bad.'

Heading to the door, he motioned for Chase to follow. Moving into the hall, he walked to the elevator, listening as Chase scampered after him. Pushing the button for the elevator, he turned his head as Chase stood beside him, hands shoved in his pockets. Deciding not to ponder too hard on the reasons behind Chase saying he'd get him his Vicodin, he stepped into the elevator with Chase and pushed the ground level. Waiting in silence, he marched through when the doors slid open and turned to the clinic. Even more specifically, the pharmacy.

'Could you slow down? People with canes aren't meant to go this fast!' Chase called out from behind him.

'Keep up and I'll let you play in pediatrics after your lunch break,' House called over his shoulder. Barking his prescription to the pharmacist, he pointed to Chase as his prescribing doctor. The pharmacist just sighed and rolled his eyes before filling out the prescription.

'This would be easier if Wilson were here.' Chase cast his eyes to the ceiling and shoved his hands in his pockets. Snatching the pill bottle from the pharmacist, House shoved it in his pocket and slipped past Chase.

'It would be, but you're the one who offered to come with me. Now excuse me, I've got to find Wilson and demand he make up for not meeting me at lunch.'

'House…'

'Don't start pulling a Cameron,' House warned before leaving the clinic, his fresh bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, rattling.

Greg pulled up in the drive, letting the engine purr before cutting it and turning to James with his brows raised. James uncertainly licked his lips as he looked up at his old house, hands folded in his lap, twisting and untwisting almost fanatically. Tapping his fingers on the wheel, Greg licked his lips.

'You gonna go up there?' Greg finally asked. James hummed nervously, tapped his feet and swallowed loudly. Brow furrowing, James undid his seatbelt. Greg watched him for a moment, before posing his question again. James whined softly, stared woefully at the door, and shook his head. Greg nodded, undid his own belt and opened the door. Heading towards the front door, Greg rung the bell and glanced at his car. James was watching him, chewing on his lower lip. The front door opened and Greg turned around. Julie stood in front of him, red-eyed, her short, stringy blonde hair tied back. Pulling at the sleeves of her jogging suit, Julie sniffed and nodded towards the corridor.

'I'll… get the box.' Julie croaked, before disappearing into the darkness of the house. Greg clucked his tongue, tapping his cane on the concrete. She had smelt vaguely of bourbon- something Wilson used to drink before the separation. Knocking his cane on the wall, he lifted his head as Julie returned, carrying a large, cardboard banana box. Greg eyed it, before raising his cane a foot off the ground.

Julie sighed, muttered 'okay' and pushed past Greg and down the path to the car. Completely ignoring James, Julie rounded to the trunk and set the box down.

'It's locked,' James called from where he sat. Julie tucked her hair that fell from the elastic and tried lifting the trunk. Grunting, she crossed her arms over her chest and quirked a brow.

'It's locked,' she announced stiffly. Greg rolled his eyes as he walked to the car and pulled the keys out of the ignition.

'That's what Jimmy just said,' he muttered as he stood beside Julie. The woman sniffed, and when Greg turned his head after lifting the trunk open, found her lips twisted into a grimace. Her eyes were still red, but were welling up with tears, teeth clamped onto her lower lip. Grabbing the box, she heaved it into the car. Records rattled, various trophies falling out. Slamming down the lid, she pushed past Greg and without paying attention to James, who had stepped out of the car, stormed inside.

'You made an awful lot,' Wilson murmured as he lifted the lid of the pot. The water bubbled, the spaghetti smell inside wafting around the room. Greg just shrugged and turned a page in the journal he was perusing. Wilson let the lid back down, setting it askew. Sunday. One of Jimmy's old records was playing, old jazz tunes that Greg had forced him to buy several years ago.

'Cuddy's been screeching down my back for missing the budget meeting on Saturday,' Greg mumbled, scanning the page before closing it and setting it on his lap. James just raised his brows and leant against the cupboard.

'How come she's not getting onto you about it?' House asked. Wilson just shrugged and turned away.

'I fuck her, and she lets me skiv off otherwise necessary meetings.'

'Cheat.'

Jimmy just gave a sheepish smile, winked, and rounded the bench. Stepping over a discarded jacket, he moved towards the couch and sat down on the armrest. Greg barely blinked and flipped a page as James stretched an arm behind him, leaning over. Resting a hand on Greg's chest, he set his head atop the others.

'What're you reading?' James asked softly, whispering into his hair.

'Medical journal,' Greg replied shortly. James hummed softly, reading the pages over Greg's head.

'"Separation Anxiety and the Mind"… interesting choice.'

Greg moved his hand atop Wilson's as he started to undo his buttons. Glancing up, he gently kissed him, sinking down into the couch.

'Spaghetti'll be done in five minutes,' he mumbled as the journal slipped from his fingers. James pushed back the lapels of Greg's shirt, kissing his way down.

'We have time.'

Running his fingers through his hair, Greg cupped the side of James' face, lifting his head up. James smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His hands splayed on Greg's chest, James rested his chin on his stomach, hair falling in front of his face. Pushing it away from his eyes, Greg drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. James licked his lips, kissing the skin under Greg's ribcage.

'Greg, I- '

'Don't say "I love you".' Greg interrupted. James raised a brow.

'I- '

'Now you've ruined the moment for great fast, non-committal sex. Thanks very much.'

James smirked. 'I was going to say I think the spaghetti's about done.'

'Huh.'

Jimmy rolled off and pulled at his shirtsleeves, leaving Greg to re-button his shirt. Starting towards the kitchen, James paused by the fridge.

'Oh, and Greg?'

'Yeah?'

'I love you.'

Greg stared at James, who grinned, hands behind his back. Rolling his eyes, Greg sat up and set his eyes in the opposite direction.

'Okay, I do, too.'

Jimmy snorted, but turned around with a smile, leaving Greg to rest his head on the back of the couch, a grin on his lips and an odd fluttering in his stomach.

'Greg.'

Greg closed his eyes tighter, and rolled onto his stomach.

'Greg!'

'Whaaat?' he groaned.

'It's time to get up.'

Opening an eye, House glanced over at Wilson, who was leaning over him, knees on the bed. Shaking his shoulder, James patted his back. 'C'mon, you're gonna be late for work.'

'It's _early_.'

'It's eight.'

Lifting his head, he rubbed his eyes and glanced at the glowing red digits on the clock. Groaning, he pushed back the sheets and shuffled to the edge of the bed. Letting a leg drop over, he grabbed his cane and gingerly stood. Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his free hand, Greg made a move to his wardrobe. Throwing the door open, he grabbed the first shirt he could find, dragging his pants out with them. When he turned, James was sitting on the corner of the bed, full dressed, hair damp from a shower. Moving next to him, he sat down, tugging his flannel pajama pants off.

'Had a funny dream last night,' he yawned as he groped for his pants.

'Mm?' James passed him his T-shirt, playing with the sleeves of the collared shirt. Greg zipped up his pants, running his hand through his hair and pulling his shirt over his head. Yawning, he nodded and stretched his back out.

'Yeah.' Taking his collared shirt, he shoved it on, plucking at the cuffs before grabbing his cane and making his way to his dresser. Tugging it open and picking out a pair of socks, he made his way back, slumping back down on the mattress. The bedsprings creaked as he shuffled down, pulling his socks on. 'Cuddy rang and told me you'd been in a car accident. It was kind of…'

'Horrible?'

'Realistic would be the right word.'

Sitting up, he snatched his cane and eyed James. James was staring him, eyebrow raised, almost expectant.

'Well?'

'Well what?'

Wilson shook his head and reached under the bed, sliding Greg's shoes over to him. Greg eased his feet into them, tugging at the tongue so his toes could get through. Curling his toes, he stood, another hand through his hair.

'D'you wanna pick something up on the way?'

Rolling his eyes, James stood, heading to the door. 'What do you suppose your dream meant?' he asked, looking over his shoulder as Greg followed him.

'I don't believe in that dream bullshit. It's probably just my head sorting through all the bad shit so everything else can be fluffy bunnies and wet dreams.'

James snorted, tossing Greg his keys. 'You drive.'

'House.'

Blatantly ignoring Foreman, House continued down the hall. Picking up his pace, Foreman called out again.

'I'm ignoring you!' House called over his shoulder. If he started walking any faster, his leg would collapse and he'd rather not have that.

'Chase is telling Sarah's mother right now.'

Halting, he studied Foreman's face. 'About what?'

Foreman raised an eyebrow and shoved his hands on his hips. 'About Sarah's lungs… the girl probably won't make it through her freshmen year.'

'Oh.' Blinking, House shrugged and started walking again. 'Pity.'

'Where're you going?' Foreman called.

'Wilson's office,' House called back. 'If you hear a lot of moaning, don't come crying to me.'

Ignoring the looks of patients and medical staff alike, he turned a corner into the oncology ward. Keeping his eyes focused, he wondered why Wilson wasn't answering his pages. He'd disappeared earlier on in the day, and despite trying to avoid Cuddy for most of it, House was getting rather aggravated.

Seeing the wooden door with the gold name plaque, House reached out to knock, rapping on the door loudly. His pager beeped loudly, once then twice, and…

Sighing, he snatched it. It was from Cameron. Mother had been told, didn't really matter. Clinic duty, the next one said. Cuddy.

Rolling his eyes, he turned his back on the door. As he rounded the corner, the door opened leaving a very confused doctor peeking out.

'House, can I talk to you?'

House turned his head, the file in his hand raised. Eyeing Cuddy, he set the file down slowly.

'If this is about last night, I don't want to talk about it.'

'House.'

Turning to the nurse behind the desk, he jerked his head. 'Her dad walked in.'

Brenda rolled her eyes and took the file from him as House stepped towards Cuddy.

'This won't take long,' she murmured, although it seemed mostly to herself than to House. Leading him through the clinic, she smoothed down her skirt, her fingers clenching to the hem of her shirt. Opening the door to her office, she let House enter first. The lights were low, the curtains drawn, and a woman sat in a chair moved beside Cuddy's desk. Frowning, House let himself be led to the other empty chair and sat down, sensing that this 'meeting', despite Cuddy's words, was going to be quite long.

'House, this is Dr Melissa Gordon,' Cuddy explained as she moved around her desk and sat in the chair behind it. 'She started here six months ago.'

Dr Gordon smiled pleasantly at House. 'I transferred from Princeton,' she explained. House grunted, turning back to Cuddy without a second glance.

'I have better things to do with my time. Like hang out with Wilson and bitch about you behind your back.'

'That's what we want to talk to you about.' Dr Gordon said gently, hands folded in her lap. House rolled his eyes, making a move to his feet. Cuddy raised a hand off the polished wood of her desk, standing up.

'House. Please. We need to talk.'

Dr Gordon stood as well, head tilted slightly. 'I'd really like to talk to you,' she said gently. House squinted at her, then turned his attention to Cuddy. Cuddy motioned for him to sit back down, before returning to her own seat. House slowly sat, the chair squeaking underneath his weight, eyeing Cuddy suspiciously.

'Greg,' Cuddy slowly said. House's suspicious raised even more so. 'Dr Gordon has been… monitoring your behaviour for the past few months.'

House narrowed his brows and opened his mouth, intending to speak, but Dr Gordon cut him off.

'Do you remember what happened six months ago?' she asked, much too lightly for House's liking. Remaining silent for a moment, House slid his eyes up to Cuddy. Outside it started to rain, the droplets filling the otherwise silent room with noise.

'House,' Cuddy whispered. She shifted forward in her seat. Before she could speak, Dr Gordon raised a hand. House was really beginning to get pissed with the way she kept doing that.

'Dr House, what is your relationship with Dr Wilson like?'

'Fine.' House replied automatically. Cuddy lowered her gaze, but the psychologist kept looking at him, eyebrows raised. House rolled his eyes, sighing. 'He lives with me. We… eat together, watch TV together. We _sleep_ together, is that what you wanted to hear? We're friends, can I leave now?'

Dr Gordon glanced down at her hands, before turning back to House. 'Where's Dr Wilson today?'

House hesitated. Wilson was with him on the drive to work… he'd seen him before he had to go see a patient. He had meant to go to his office, but… he'd gotten tied up with his case and he'd started down to the oncology ward, and then Cameron had paged him, but he'd ignored it, hadn't he?

'House?' He snapped back to reality and saw Cuddy staring at him.

'He's… probably with a patient, I haven't seen him since ten o'clock.'

Cuddy drew in a deep breath and shifted her elbows onto the desk. House finally noticed how tightly her hair was pulled back, how red her eyes were, how discretely she was dressed. She licked he lips, fingers clasped tightly together. Almost like she was trying to stop her hands from shaking, he thought.

'Greg,' she said softly, and House couldn't help but think how foreign his first name sounded on her lips. 'Wilson's… he passed on six months ago.'

House stared. It was all completely ridiculous, of course. If Wilson had died, somebody would have said something to him sooner. Should have said something sooner.

'You're lying.' Bland, matter-of-fact. Cuddy shook her head. 'You're lying,' he insisted, 'There's no way James is dead. He… I…' Closing his eyes for a minute, he swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. It was a joke, and he had an urge to laugh, get up and leave, but something was holding him back.

'Dr Wilson is- '

'I know what "dead" means, thank you very much,' House snapped at Dr Gordon. 'I am a doctor, after all. And I _don't_ appreciate being forced to come in here and listen to outrageous claims that my best friend has been dead and buried for six months.'

'Greg…' Cuddy whispered. Clearing her throat, she said louder, 'Wilson was killed in a car accident six months ago. He feel asleep at the wheel and drove into oncoming traffic.' Almost desperately, she dropped her head, holding House's unwavering gaze. 'He was dead on arrival. You attended his funeral- you read a eulogy. Don't you remember?'

House stared at her, unable to do much else. He remembered a funeral, but that was for Jimmy's brother… not Jimmy. Jimmy, who was probably in his office, telling some poor old soul that they had six months to live.

Six months.

Six months since he turned up on his doorstep, looking a little worse for wear… but House figured that was because it was two AM, and James had been called in because his patient had a sudden downward fall.

'We thought you'd shake yourself out of it,' Dr Gordon was saying. House wondered if maybe she was asked to leave Princeton, and she didn't actually ask to be transferred.

Thinking about her, he found, was easier then concentrating on the fact James was probably dead.

'House?' Cuddy asked, bringing him back to reality. 'I think it would be good if you spoke to Dr Gordon. Just to help you grieve.'

House eyed the desk in front of him, taking in the swirls and patterns the old wood made. The dim light reflected the varnish. Outside, the rain started to pour harder, a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder echoing through the room. Taking in the wood a moment longer, he stood, saying abruptly 'no.' Moving around the chair, he shook his head. 'Wilson's not dead. I can prove it.'

Dr Gordon sighed, and House caught her rolling her eyes. Before he could speak, she stood and held her hands out.

'In cases like these, the sufferer often acts out their deceased… partner's former habits. They then block out the memory of them doing so. You may notice you're missing blocks of time, or you can't recall what you did, maybe five or ten minutes ago.'

House hesitated, taking his memory back a week ago. Talking to James, who said he was off to have a shower. Later, looking down at his wet hands and cold meal, and he didn't have a shower that morning did he?

'You may find people acting differently around you,' Dr Gordon continued.

Cameron, with her pressed lips, concerned expression, which House always put down to a kid with a cold in the clinic.

Chase, who would just shake his head, and study his hands. That long, blonde hair of his that could really do with a pair of scissors, falling in front of his face.

And Foreman, who shook his own head, try to talk to him… oh. Oh, so that's what he wanted to keep talking about.

'So what… I've been imagining him for six months?' It came out more bitter then he intended, but the message was the same.

'That seems to be the case, yes.' Dr Gordon murmured.

Silence filled the room once more. House glanced through the gap in the curtains to the rain outside. It was still coming down hard, the splatter as it dripped from the drainage pipes and hit the brickwork below echoing. Lowering his head, Greg rubbed his hands over the top of his pants.

It made sense because it had to.

'Where to now?' he finally asked.

'I'd like to keep speaking to you,' Dr Gordon said softly. House raised his eyes to Cuddy.

'Why didn't you tell me earlier? Instead of allowing me to make a fool of myself?'

Cuddy opened her mouth, hesitating for the smallest second. 'You… seemed happier,' she finally admitted, almost regretfully.

Greg hung his head, mumbling 'oh' softly. His head had started to hurt, and his leg threatened to buckle underneath him when me made a move to stand.

'When are you free?' Dr Gordon asked, moving to her own feet. Pulling a leather-bound journal from the bag by the foot of her chair, she flipped it open. 'I'm free… one o'clock tomorrow. How's that for you?'

She looked up at him expectantly, eyebrows up. Greg felt that if he did have anything on, it would need to be cancelled. 'I'll see what I can do.'

Dr Gordon smiled and swung her bag over her shoulder. 'It was nice meeting you finally, Dr House,' she said, shaking his hand. Her hand was cold and uninviting. Saying her goodbyes to Cuddy, she nodded once again to House and left the room.

House turned to Cuddy, grimacing. Cuddy avoided his gaze and sagged her shoulders.

'You can go home for the rest of the day, if you want.'

House stared at the cane in his hand. Reliable, there, always there. 'Okay.'

But House found himself discontent with the idea of going home. Where it was empty. Where Wilson would never truly walk through the door, in flesh and blood. Regardless, Greg nodded and moved to the door.

'House?'

He turned his head, heavy-lidded eyes on Cuddy.

'It was for the best. Telling you.' House turned back around, nodded. Looking at Cuddy's imploring, desperate expression only dug the truth, the hurt, the realization in further. 'Do you want to visit his burial plot?'

House kept his head down. 'Yeah. Okay.'

'I'll come by on Friday at eight. We can take my car.'

'Can I drive?'

'If you want.'

'Yeah. Okay.'

Before Cuddy could speak again, House threw the door open and limped through.

_(So… reality was wrong._

_Reality is almost always wrong.)_

There was a loud rap on the door. Greg poked at the meal before him, the cold remains of a steak and salad that he didn't want to eat but made anyway. Ignoring the knock on the door, he snatched up the remote of the stereo and turned it up, the old jazz sounds- the record was better but reminded him too much of the past- filling the room. The knock only became incessantly louder, before a call of 'Open up!' made him turn the stereo off. Grumbling, he moved to the door and threw it open, staring at Chase.

'What?'

The younger doctor, unprepared, stepped back. He had a bag hanging from his shoulder and it swayed precariously as he struggled to regain his balance.

'I heard… Foreman said Cuddy told you. About Wilson.'

Greg stared at him, resting his weight on his good leg. 'Yeah. So?'

The Australian shrugged and ran a thumb underneath the strap of his bag. He bowed his head, long strands of blonde hair covering his face. Greg quirked a brow and watched, trying his best to appear amused but finding he just wanted Chase to shoot off more than normal. However, Chase lifted his head and swallowed and shrugged.

'I just wanted to see if you were okay. That's all.'

'I'm alive, aren't I?'

Chase faltered before holding a hand out. 'I… um…'

House kept eyeing him. 'Yes?'

'When my mother died… It… it was hard. And… well, I just know. I know what it's like to lose someone. We weren't close, but… but she was my mother and that counts for something. Anyway, I, um… can I come in?'

House paused before stepping away from the door. Chase slunk through and moved towards the couch, leaving House to shut the door behind him. Limping over, resting his cane on the couch, Greg sat beside him, eyebrow still raised. Chase held his bag in his lap and slowly unzipped it.

'I know you probably won't care too much, but I just thought that maybe… you'd be willing to, if just for right now.' Chase lifted his head, lips pursed. 'It helped me again when my dad died and… and now.'

Greg lowered his gaze to the leather bound book in Chase's hands, the words 'Holy Bible' printed in gold on the spine. Rolling his eyes, he let out a sigh and Chase let his bag slip to the ground. Shuffling to face him, he leaned over, clutching the Bible to his chest.

'Please, just… just try. I've… I've got two passages marked. They're short, but…' he drifted off, and flipped open to a page, a bookmark in place. Clearing his throat, he drifted his finger down the page. 'This one's from Romans… Chapter eight.

'_No, in all these things we are more than conquerors, through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life… nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord._'

Lifting his head, Chase gave a small smile to Greg. Greg just raised a brow, and draped an arm over the back of the couch. 'Fascinating.'

'House, I'm being serious.'

'I'm sure you are.'

'Can I continue?'

Greg just waved his hand and settled back. He could picture Chase at an altar, doing this. Hands raised, blessing the churchgoers as the prayed for forgiveness. If Chase had any sense, House believed, he would be reading from the Torah.

'Um… this is Psalm eighteen…

'_The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold._'

He smiled weakly up at Greg, flipping through the pages. 'I have some more if you… want. Or I could just leave my bible here, I… I'm sure I have another at home somewhere.'

'I'll be fine.'

'Well, there's another…'

House just rolled his eyes and stood. He wanted to be alone. Time to reflect and think and wonder just how he could get out of seeing Dr Gordon. If Wilson were there…

If Wilson were there none of this would have occurred.

His shoulders sagged and he looked down at the ground. His socks could do with some mending, he decided. Picking up his cane, he stepped away from the couch.

'House? Where are you…?'

'Go home, Chase.'

'But…' He heard Chase stand and grab his bag. 'House…'

Greg kept on walking, turning into the hallway. 'I'm going to have a shower and go to bed.'

He opened the door to the bathroom and locked it behind him. Setting the seat of the toilet down, he sat down upon it. Out the door, he waited until there was the sound of the front door clicking closed, and a moment later the sound of a car driving away.

Keeping his eyes closed, Greg rested his elbow on his good knee. The ache, he figured, would disappear eventually. And Wilson would just fade away.

When he finally left the bathroom, the bible was sitting on the coffee table.

Greg set a hand on his pillow. Jimmy was gone. He wasn't coming back, he had never come back. Squeezing his eyes closed, he licked his lips and rolled onto his side, curling up slightly with his good leg.

Gone. He was gone, and that was all there was to it.

Breathe hard through his nose; ignore the growing pain in his leg. Normal people express their emotions while unhealthy people have it come out in physical symptoms… wasn't that the basic gist of what James had been trying to tell him when Stacy left? Except Jimmy couldn't tell that to him now.

There was a creak in the floorboards and Greg turned his head.

James.

James fucking Wilson.

'You're not real.'

It came out quick, expected. If he really was fucked in the head, then of course he was going to expect to see him.

James shrugged, though, and shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn't look dead, and Greg had never believed in ghosts or spirits as a child, and he wasn't about to now. He was just a figment of his imagination, and that was it.

His leg seemed to twitch and the pain grew.

'Sure, I'm not.'

'You're dead,' Greg croaked out, sitting up slightly. Fight his imagination; tell himself Jimmy was dead and gone and buried. James just shrugged again, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor.

'Maybe.'

Greg hesitated. 'So… why am I seeing you?'

James raised his eyes and turned his head, not replying. Greg frowned, gaining confidence, though his leg throbbed incessantly, the remaining muscle seeming to pulse. He could already feel the nausea rising in his stomach, and he silently cursed Cameron for not giving him his Vicodin.

'I should be in psychiatric care,' he spat out. 'It's a miracle I'm not.'

'So why haven't you been?'

He hated that tone even when James was alive. It was teasing, almost joking, though there seemed to be bitter resentment behind it. Greg thrust the sheets back and flexed his right toes. The pain only flared up worse, and Greg hissed through his teeth.

'Cuddy thinks…' Pause, swallow, and he closed his eyes. Counting back from ten, something James had finally got him to do when he was getting angry. Not that he'd do anything, and while the pain in his leg remained, he could ignore it, if only for a moment longer. When he opened them, Jimmy was closer, standing beside him with a hand on the table. 'Cuddy thinks I'm happier this way.'

James raised a brow and sat down on the edge of the mattress, torso twisting to face him. 'Are you?'

Greg paused, looking at Jimmy's hand. It was more tanned then he remembered. Of course, before the accident, Jimmy had taken to working in the backyard. And it only struck Greg then that he hadn't gone out the back for six months, and he'd taken it for granted that Jimmy was still working out there.

'Cutting makes the emo teens happy. Cake makes the fat kids happy. Vicodin _used_ to make me happy. Doesn't mean it's healthy…

'Is seeing me hurting you?' His voice was quiet as he leant forward, trying to study the reaction in Greg's face.

'The point is…. There's something in wrong in my head. I need help.'

James sighed and moved back. Rubbing the back of his neck, he rolled the cuffs of his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and stood. Crossing his arms over his chest, he glanced to the ground. 'Not all schizophrenics need to be locked up. Not all bipolars need medication. Not all… dissociatives need therapy.'

'Now you sound like me,' Greg drawled.

'I am you,' James replied simply.

'Least we're both seeing that.' Greg rolled his eyes and looked at the sheets. Tugging them with one hand, he was surprised to find his leg was hurting less. Although the pain still ran through it, it had disappeared greatly from before.

James stepped forward again and placed a hand on his knee. It felt warm, and Greg found himself oddly comforted as James sat down on the edge of mattress.

'Am I… real to you? You can hear me, see me… touch me, taste me, feel me. You know what I do.'

Greg lifted his head, replying shortly, 'because _I_ do it.'

'But doesn't that constitute as real?' Greg glanced at Jimmy, but didn't reply. James shifted closer, almost leaning over him. 'There's a thick line between fantasy and reality, despite what others may thank. I'm real to you, House. I make you happy. It may be unhealthy, it may be psych-worthy, but…' His voice lowered to a whisper. 'But if you didn't refuse to believe I'm gone… you'd be worse than a train wreck. You know that. That's why I'm still here.' Sighing, he shook his head and raised his eyes to the ceiling. 'You see a psych… you may be fine for a few months, accept reality. Let them test you… but what then? You'll build a tolerance to the meds they'll shove down your throat, go along your merry way. But where to then?'

Greg traced a pattern of the sheet, tentatively looking up at Wilson. 'So what're you suggesting?

James looked at him evenly, hands folded in his lap. 'Everybody lies.'

The sunlight fell across his wall. It was only three AM, but he was wide-awake. Stretching out his good leg, he pulled the covers up to his neck, recalling the conversation from the night before. Wilson. Jimmy. Rolling onto his side, he tucked his leg underneath him, shutting his eyes tight. Wriggling about, he felt his arm brush along something. Opening his eyes, he found James lying next to him, smiling sleepily. Greg opened his mouth, about to speak when Jimmy wriggled an arm out from underneath him and placed it to Greg's lips. Reaching over without thinking, Greg wrapped an arm around him, his skin warm.

Brushing his fingers down Jimmy's back, Greg wondered how someone so dead, so invisible, could feel so real. He could feel the heat coming from James, could feel the way his muscles moved, the way his entire body moved as he breathed in and out. Turning his head, James smiled, his hair falling in front of his face.

_How could someone,_ Greg thought as he brushed Jimmy's hair away, behind his ear, _not be real? Be fake? _Greg could see the strands of hair between his fingers, could feel the soft, just-washed feel on his hands. Could smell the shampoo as he leant over and buried his face in his neck.

He could feel the heat beneath his lips, the pulse in Jimmy's neck. Could feel every breath, every sigh without hearing them. Fingers against James' arm, chest to back, and lips between his shoulder blades. Breathing in time, heartbeats in synch. Greg could taste Jimmy's salty skin. James was murmuring quietly into the pillow, half-words, unfinished sentences. Urging Greg on, telling him to prove he was real.

Hands clambering into rattling drawers, not really caring whose hands they were. But soon, Greg's own were slick and he was pushing and rubbing and kissing James' shoulder, neck, ear. Arms around James' waist. He could hear him grunting and moaning, pushing into him as Greg balanced precariously on one knee. How could this not be real? How could that not be James beneath him? James, his James, his Jimmy Wilson. He couldn't be dead by an act of fate and a car. He was real.

He _was_ real.

If he weren't, Greg wouldn't feel James beneath him. Wouldn't feel him tense in his arms as he shook and trembled and let out a grunt, a cry, teeth on a lower lip. Somebody so fake wouldn't be there. Wouldn't be there as Greg achingly collapsed on top of James, gasped and rolled over. Push Jimmy's sweaty hair from his face and kiss his lips. Warm, alive lips. The sticky-slickness between his legs, James' sleepy, somewhat doleful smile. A blind eye to the mess on the bed sheets and his hands.

They were the things that weren't real.

'I'm so glad you could come, Dr House.'

Greg slipped into the chair opposite Dr Gordon. The woman gave a forced smiled, her hair tied back in a tight bun. Greg just hooked his cane on the armrest of the chair and stared blankly at her. She held her hands on the open file before her, pen under her hand.

'How have you been feeling, since we spoke last?'

Greg blinked and drew in a breath0. Wilson was all in his mind, that's what he and Wilson had decided. The conversation last night with Wilson, and the one with Cuddy.

'I'm going to the gravesite with Cuddy tomorrow,' he replied, ignoring her question. Dr Gordon nodded and quickly wrote something down on the paper.

'You coping well with everything, though?' she asked as she wrote.

'One of my doctors came by last night. Read to me from the Bible.'

'How was that for you?'

Greg shrugged. He knew he could play her, but for some reason… he lifted his head. Posters lined the wall with motivational quotes. A cat dangling from a tree branch… 'Hang in there!' Yellow tulips whilst a red one stood in the middle… 'You're perfect just the way you are.'

There were none about how to get over imaginary loved ones.

'I'm dealing with it.'

'How?'

House dropped his gaze to her. 'I'm _dealing_. I spent last night locked in the bathroom standing under a shower with a Bible holding down my overflowing garbage.'

Dr Gordon eyed him and quickly wrote down a few notes. 'Have you been seeing Dr Wilson?'

House timed it right. '… No. I… have wanted to, but…' he shrugged and slumped back in his seat. Dr Gordon nodded, seemingly interested and kept writing.

'You might be seeing him in the next few weeks. We'll have to… retrain your brain, if you will. It's latched onto a certain way of thinking…'

Dr Gordon's voice drifted off as House just watched her, a bored expression on his face. Ignoring her gestures, he caught sight of her desk.

Where Wilson was sitting behind it.

'She sure can drag on, can't she?'

House blinked and cleared his throat. Wilson grinned cheekily and rested forward on his elbows, hands clasped under his chin.

'Pretty, but I wouldn't do her. I'm not very fond of redheads. And her nose is a bit pointy. Nice ass, though.'

House turned his attention back to Dr Gordon.

'You understand?'

'Yeah. Retrain brain, gotcha.'

She smiled and Greg checked his watch. Forty-five minutes to go. Leaning back into his chair, he folded his hands on his lap, ready for the long haul.

The car pulled up into the parking lot, the gravel underneath crunching under the tires. Other then a few cars parked nearby, the cemetery was fairly empty. House let his hands drop from the steering wheel into his lap. He sighed, slumping back in his seat, eyes raised to the clouds peeking through the branches in the trees, buds appearing on the limbs, promising new foliage.

'You look very nice,' Cuddy murmured beside him. 'I didn't tell you that this morning.'

She was trying to make the situation easier, Greg could tell. It wasn't working, though.

'Thanks.' He reached behind the seat and grabbed his cane. Cuddy's car smelt of lemon air freshener, deodorant and the barest hint of spilt coffee. House didn't like it, didn't like the way everything seemed forced. Letting his seatbelt snake up, he opened the door and stepped onto the gravel. Shoving the car keys into his pocket, he'd taken a step when Cuddy called out to him, reminding him to lock the door. Tossing the keys over his shoulder to her, he kept walking to the entrance of the cemetery.

'I hate this idea,' House mumbled when Cuddy trotted up beside him.

'You said it was okay,' she replied, swinging her bag over her shoulder. Greg kept his eyes on the dirt path. There was little doubt in his mind that former patients of his, of Wilson's, were buried there. That didn't bother him so much as the fact he was forced to be there.

'Dr Gordon's been hinting she wants you to be here. To just… see the proof.' Cuddy explained.

'Short of digging Jimmy up and parading him around like Saddam Hussein's sons.'

Cuddy remained quiet. Gently taking hold of Greg's elbow, she led him through the tombstones, stepping over fallen flowers. The soil became softer as they passed, the tombstones more polished. Keeping his head down, he let Cuddy lead, although he could vaguely remember the area. He stopped when Cuddy did, shuffling to turn around.

The date engraved on the tombstone was just over six months earlier. The birthday before it was too early, too young. Wilson's name gleamed above it and a passage from the Torah was written. There were no marble angels, no rising pillars. Just simplistic style that indicated nothing.

'He liked simple,' Cuddy murmured.

'He wanted to be cremated,' Greg mumbled in response.

'His parents wanted this.'

Greg remained silent. Turning his eyes away, he leant into his cane, his leg aching. Reaching into his pocket, he dug around for his Vicodin, pulling a tablet out. Reminding himself that he would need to bus one of his protégés to get him some more, he popped the pill into his mouth.

'You've been taking more since we told you,' Cuddy said, watching him. 'You were actually cutting back beforehand.'

'Well that's your fault, huh?'

'House…'

He turned away, limping a few steps. Cuddy followed, reaching out and grasping at his upper arm. Pulling him back, she stared desperately up at him, shaking her head slowly, mouthing words silently. House glanced away from her, swallowing a lump in his throat. His muscles felt tense, his mouth dry, and if his leg could support it, he would probably end up running back to the car and waiting the rest of the day out.

But Cuddy stepped in and seemed to collapse. Her arms fell to Greg's shoulders, her knees buckling and her head on Greg's chest. House felt himself tugged down, but Cuddy righted herself and, slowly, he hugged her back. Looking over her shoulder, his eyes fell on Wilson's grave. His chest heaved, eyes closing, and suddenly it wasn't him holding Cuddy, it was Cuddy supporting him. His head fell, resting atop the woman's.

'There's a café we passed on the way here,' Cuddy murmured into his chest. 'Do you want to stop there?'

House looked over at Wilson's grave once more. Somebody had stolen the flowers from the dirty vase beside it. It looked empty, out of place.

'Okay,' he finally said. Cuddy slowly detangled herself from him. Although her eyes weren't red and her make-up wasn't running, she seemed as if she had been crying. Maybe not now, but certainly a while ago. She sniffed and turned away, head down, leading House from Wilson's grave.

The café was small, half a mile from the cemetery. Inside, a couple sat sniffing in a corner, a woman and a younger male. As Greg moved a step behind Cuddy, he watched as the woman dabbed her eyes with a napkin and the younger man pulled her into a one-armed hug. Turning his head to the floor, House sat down at the table Cuddy had chosen, hanging his cane over the back of his chair. A waitress came and took their orders- coffee for both. House contemplated ordering a sandwich, but he found a lack of appetite and he was keen to get home as soon as possible.

The table they sat at as was far away from the rest of the diners, however few there were. When the waitress came with their coffees, House discovered a permanently fixed almost-apologetic smile on her tired face. Having worked as a waiter in high school, distaste for humanity came early, House discovered. Working so close to a cemetery couldn't be much help, either.

Sipping his coffee, he grabbed a packet of sugar, shook it and ripped the top off. Pouring the contents into the cup, he slowly stirred it in. Clinking his teaspoon on the lip of the cup, he sipped it again.

'Do you feel any better?' Cuddy asked, looking at Greg over the cup. House ran his hands over the tablecloth.

'I haven't really thought about it,' he admitted. Lifting his cup again, he ignored Cuddy's intent stare.

The windows of the café needed a wash. Or, even more extreme, new panels of glass to be put in. The windows were foggy, no doubt from pebbles and dirt being thrown against them by trucks passing along the highway.

'Jimmy grew up in this area,' Greg finally said, licking his lips as he set the cup down.

'That's why his parents chose to bury him here.' Cuddy looked at him again, lips pursed tight. 'You didn't have much to do with the funeral. You asked specifically not to… it was hard enough to get you to write a eulogy, let alone say it.' She sighed and shook her head, staring into her mug. 'I should have picked it up then that you weren't handling it well.'

She drifted off, spinning her spoon aimlessly in her mug. Greg sat back in his chair. The dress shoes he had chosen to wear pinched his toes. The dirt in the graveyard had created a fine layer of dust over the polish and cuff of his pants. Despite having forgone a tie, the neck of his shirt seemed too tight, and he couldn't wait to ho home and get unchanged and sit in nothing but shorts until Wilson got there. He'd get that serious but wanting to laugh look in his face when House told him about where Cuddy had dragged him-

'I'm going to the bathroom,' Cuddy announced, standing. She almost wobbled, steadied herself, and headed to the swinging door that led to the ladies.

'You're doing it again.'

House didn't need to turn his head. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Wilson rounded the table. Pulling a chair out, he sat down, sliding into the seat with ease.

'You're forgetting. You're so obsessed with the truth, yet you forget to see it yourself.'

Greg lowered his head, watching steam filter out of his coffee. James reached over the table, taking hold of Greg's hand. Greg's fingers instantly curled around them.

'I don't want to forget,' he murmured. James leant over, eyebrows raised.

'What?'

Lifting his gaze, he stared into Jimmy's concerned, warm eyes. '_You_.'

He heard the bathroom door creak open and the clip-clop of Cuddy's heels on the floorboards. Turning away from James, Greg stood, snatching his cane up.

'You want to get going?' Cuddy asked. House nodded and left the table, leaving Wilson to sink into the chair before disappearing from Greg's sight.

'Did you honestly think I'd get better on my own?' House asked as he pulled up to a red light. 'Six months, that's chronic.'

'I was hoping- '

'I know what you were hoping, but that doesn't mean it was right.' House pushed down the pedal, turning the corner. The car was silent, the sky gray. Keeping his eyes on the road, he tried to keep his mind off Cuddy and Wilson.

He'd seen her cry before. Five years earlier, when her mother had finally been unable to fight breast cancer anymore. Cuddy had gone upstate for a few days to attend the funeral. When she came back, she would often get a funny look in her eyes, which were already red and puffy. She pulled Greg into a hug during one of those times, and while they never mentioned it, it felt very intimate. Like they had crossed a border.

Much like now.

'Why'd you put Dr Gordon in charge of my case?'

Cuddy cleared her throat, turning her gaze out the window. 'Most of the other psychologists… they were concerned it would be a waste of time. They know how you are with these things.'

'Huh.'

'Dr Gordon's very qualified.'

'Dr Gordon's an _idiot_.'

Greg turned his head, eyeing Cuddy. The faintest hint of a smirk was on her lips, her eyes concentrating on the scene outside.

'Go on. Laugh.'

'Dr Gordon's- '

'Still an idiot. She couldn't analyze her way out of a bowl of rice.'

'She wanted to work on your case.'

'She's a fuckwit.'

Cuddy snorted and House turned his head as he slowed down at a stop sign.

'There you go. Laugh. You know you want to.'

'I'm not Wilson, House.'

The smile fell from their faces instantly.

'How'd you die?' House murmured. James lay in front of him, his back pressed to Greg's chest. A prime time sitcom that neither of them watched flickered on the television screen. The dishes were done and stacked, dinner long over. Greg's fingers brushed through Wilson's hair, combing the strands back. Soft and freshly washed, the way he always loved to remember it as.

'You want me to make something up?' James asked. Greg bowed his head, closing his eyes as he kissed the back of James' head. His hair smelt of fruity shampoo. 'You only really know what Cuddy told you.'

Greg shrugged. Reaching over James, he grabbed the remote off the floor and muted the TV. Leaning back, he curled around James, leaving his arm to drape over him.

'Tell me anyway.' He knew little about the accident, and even though he asked Dr Gordon and Cuddy repeatedly, he found no answers. James shuffled back, tilting his head towards Greg. With his arm under his head, he slowly ran his fingers through his hair. James closed his eyes. His voice seemed far away when he spoke… distant. Distracted.

'I got called in at two AM. Nina Hartely- you remember, the mother? Cervical cancer, it had metastasized, there was little chance she would live. You remember?'

'I remember.'

James sighed and started again. 'Her heart rate was dropping too fast, and she kept drifting in an out of consciousness. I… I got called in, she was my patient. I didn't want to, it was cold and the snow had come early. You got up with me, made me a coffee.'

'You didn't take it.'

'I was running late. I should have, though…' He paused, curling his fingers around Greg's. 'We got her stable, but there was still little chance she'd live to the end of the month… I was exhausted, it was past four. I was on the highway coming back, and at the next turn-off, I was going to stop at a drive thru and get a coffee. But… I fell asleep for only a second. When I woke, I was on the wrong side of the road. A semi was coming, and I tried to swerve…'

House remembered now. Remembered the phone call by Cuddy… the shrill ring in the middle of the night. The blue and red lights flickering through the curtains and onto the walls. The bang of the car doors and the bang of the knock on the door and the unmistakable screech of metal on metal and shatter of glass and the sickening crunch of breaking bones that was bound to have occurred.

'You didn't swerve in time.'

Soft. Quiet. On the television, Rachel was entering Monica's apartment, waving her arms. Phoebe had just said something and everyone was looking at her. All fake and imagined, like the man he was holding in his arms. Somewhere along the line, he had forgotten the police and the funeral. How he sat on the couch he was now lying on, listening wordlessly as one of the officers- a woman- who tried to care but she had said the words so many times before they had lost all meaning.

Dr James Wilson had fallen asleep at the wheel, she had said.

Cuddy was there, Greg remembers that. She had called him. There's been an accident, Wilson's in the ambulance, don't come around, I'll come over. The police had arrived first, though, and Greg knew then… knew, just knew.

A truck, a semi-trailer. Not the driver's fault, but they'd bring him in anyway. Ask a few questions. The guy had a family, four kids, his wife worked part-time at a second hand store. Oldest was seven. Guy couldn't have been any older then thirty-eight, fancy that.

Yeah, Jimmy. Coming home, having just saved a life. Fall asleep for only a second and BAM, there comes that white light everyone talks about. Except… except Jimmy probably didn't have time to see that. The only light he probably would have seen was the lights of the truck as he drove into the corner of the hood before it came crushing through the driver's side of his car, crushing him into the driver's seat as the windscreen shattered and the engine became nothing but a wasteful pile of scrap metal. It was amazing the car didn't set alight, he later heard two officers saying to one another.

It's amazing everything was still attached, said the other.

It was closed casket. Greg could have seen the body in the morgue if he really wanted to, but… but no. He didn't. Who would have? The mortician is used to it, seeing the dead. So was Greg, but Jimmy was overstepping the line.

Julie was at the funeral. Pale eyes teary and red. Hair a stringy messy she'd tried to do something with, but it just hang limp by her face. Cuddy was there. Cameron, Foreman, Chase. Cameron was quietly sobbing in her seat. Chase's eyes were red, but he was trying hard not to cry. He kept squeezing Cameron's hand, reassuring, and Cameron surprisingly let Chase hold her. Foreman just sat there, watching, lips pressed together. Solemn.

Both Wilson and Greg's parents were there. Greg's mother patting Wilson's mother on the hand, both their heads bowed. Greg didn't even speak to them, just kept his head down the whole time, even through the eulogy. He didn't want to read it. Cuddy kept quietly forcing him, urging him. Oh, you should do something. James would want it.

No, he wouldn't, he'd just want everyone to keep his or her mouths shut and go along his or her way.

Or maybe Greg was referring to himself. Maybe he didn't say anything. Maybe he spent all day out of the hospital and at the library or cinema or park or somewhere where nobody go, oh, look at Dr House, he's an even more miserable son of a bitch since Dr Wilson died. Isn't a shame it was he?

And he can't remember when, but one day… he forgot the police. It morphed into Wilson coming home, tired and weary, slamming the door behind him. Slinking into bed and sleeping… and the funeral morphed into one for Wilson's missing brother, and Greg could never think as to why he had to read a eulogy. But he did and Jimmy just never talked about it, and nobody directly mentioned James to him, but he never thought about it.

'I miss you.' It came out soft, barely above a whisper. 'So… much. I want you back with me.'

The TV had somehow been switched off. Greg immediately thought Wilson had, but… but no. It was him. Somewhere between thinking and coming back, he had reached over and turned it off. James was looking at him, wide-eyed, sniffing.

'I know. I… I know. I'm sorry.'

They were quiet. Wilson was staring up at him, looking just how Greg felt- his eyes were puffy, his hair mussed. Lips red and swollen from where he'd been biting them, his cheeks red and dirty from where he'd probably been crying. House didn't cry, hadn't cried when James had been killed… or maybe he had. In silence, behind his bedroom door, when he was asleep. Waking up in a cold sweat during the night, gasping for breath. Waiting for his pupils to contract in the morning sunlight, groping for his cane… and just calling out 'J-Jimmy?'

Pushing himself up, Greg wiped his face with the heel of his hand. Sniffing, he grabbed his cane from the ground and pushed himself up. His leg was hurting and while Chase had been persuaded into getting him his Vicodin, the trip to his bedroom seemed much too far. He limped over the length of the room and fell down into the chair at his dining table. James stared at him from the couch, sniffing softly to himself.

'I'm so sorry, House. I… I didn't want… I'm never going to leave.'

House stared at James for a moment, before lowering his head. Shaking it, because… because it was the only way. 'It's not healthy.'

James moved to his feet. A hand was on his chest as he leant over, his eyes redder than usual. Groping his way around the table, and Greg was breaking up inside. His eyes were closed tight but he could see Wilson behind his eyelids, imaging him shaking as he headed over. His bare feet curling into the carpet as he stumbled across. A hand to his knee, and he can feel it. Another to his cheek, and Greg opened his eyes, staring up into Jimmy's, his Jimmy, brown eyes.

'D-don't make me go, Greg. Don't make me go. _Please_. I… I'll be s-so good, so f-fucking quiet. Just… just…' He wasn't crying but he sounded like it. And Greg wanted to, wanted to cry, wanted to just let go and let it all out, because he knew, knew it wasn't right or healthy, and really, Dr Gordon was telling the truth. Needed to get over it. But James… holding on, begging not to go, and Greg's heart was wrenching in his chest. 'I'll be s-so good. I'll d-do whatever… what… whatever you want. I'll st-stay here, n-never leave. I'll never leave- I'll w-wait for you. I'll wait f-for you everyday, everyday, _please_. O-oh, God, G-Greg, I'm s-so sorry.'

James' head landed on Greg's chest, near-wracking with sobs. It was awful to watch him cry, watch a grown man cry… even an imagined one at that. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, holding him close, eyes closed.

'I know… I know.'

Three months, six months a year. Passing by in a blur of new cases, clinic duty and Dr Gordon. It hurt House's head to think about it sometimes, to go over the past year. October was especially hard. There was a memorial service. House spent it standing in the back, arriving late and leaving early. He didn't need it, didn't need to see the blown-up picture of Wilson, with his teeth whitened and blemishes removed. It was all fake.

March had returned. The snow had melted especially early and buds were appearing on the end of tree branches. He hadn't returned to the cemetery, but from what he'd picked up Cuddy had gone with some of the oncology staff. Julie was there, apparently, but she shot through when she saw the doctors.

Chase approached House in the following weeks after the revelation. Asking if he was all right. House finally pulled the Bible out of the garbage and circled points in red that contradicted later points. He considered giving it to Chase on his birthday, but later decided better and completely ignored Chase on his birthday.

Chase was rather amused to find a bobble-headed Jesus doll in his broken-into locker with a picture of his face taped on.

In the middle of March, Dr Gordon closed her folder and gave House one of her over-toothy smiles.

'It's been a year,' she said, tilting her head.

'It has.'

'How do you feel?'

'Fine.'

Dr Gordon stood and set the folder on her chair. Holding out her hand, she motioned from House to stand, which he did. Shaking his hand, she nodded once.

'I'd like to cut back on our sessions. Once or twice a month. How does that suit you?'

'Once a year would be better.'

She laughed, forced as usual. Her voice still grated on Greg's nerves, the way she pushed everything, tried to pretend to be his friend. From what he heard she was 'transferring' upstate within two months. It was just a rumor he overheard the nurses talking about, but they got their gossip right most of the time.

'I'll send you a memo with a time. Come by if you want me to change it.'

House just shrugged, said goodbye and exited.

He still avoided clinic duty as much as possible. He had forced Chase into doing his for two weeks after the Bible incident. Chase had just quietly gone along his way, not saying a word.

Foreman had taken to sitting in House's office when he played solitaire. At first it was distracting and House couldn't win a game for over a month. Soon, though, Foreman pointed out opportunities that Greg would have otherwise overlooked. Now he was winning nearly every game.

Cameron mostly sat outside, nursing a cup of coffee during her breaks. Even in winter she sat out on the balcony, sipping her coffee. House just let her be and soon she came back inside, red nosed and bleary eyed, but sitting at the table and filling out a sodoku puzzle.

Cuddy asked him out to lunch. After much thought and reluctance, he finally agreed. It wasn't a date and the food could have been better, but afterwards (ten weeks afterwards), he admitted he enjoyed it, but could they never do it again because he missed General Hospital.

Late March, House returned home from work. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a few pellets and slipped them into Steve's cage. The rat scampered over, nibbling happily. Moving to the kitchen, Greg pulled out pots and various ingredients. The only sound that came was the clatter as Greg shoved everything together, chopping up the vegetables and shoving them on the stove.

'What're you making?'

'Stuffed peppers. I forget how you make them.'

'My cookbook's under the sink. Smell good, though.'

James stood behind Greg, wrapping an arm around his waist. Greg pulled the cookbook out from under the sink, dusting off the cover. Flipping it open, he found the right page.

'How was work?' James asked, kissing Greg behind the ear as he slowly chopped up the ingredients.

'Eh. Sarah's still alive. She came in today for a general check-up… she sprained her wrist.'

'How?'

'Fell off her bike.'

'Amazing kid.'

Wilson snaked his hand up Greg's shirt, watching as Greg set the knife down and turned around. Grinning, he ran a hand through his hair, leaning down to kiss him softly.

'What did you do all day?'

'Watched some TV. Morning television sucks…'

'Should've turned on the porn.'

Greg set the peppers into a pot and placed them on the stove. When he turned, James was sitting on the edge of the cupboard, legs swinging. Walking over, Greg wrapped his arms around him, looking up.

'You stayed,' he whispered, cupping the side of his face. Jimmy nodded, a hand on the back of Greg's neck.

'I said I would.'

'Everyone thinks I stopped seeing you.'

James lowered his head, kissing Greg softly. 'I'm never going to leave you,' he whispered, burying his face into the crook of Greg's neck. Greg sighed, closing his eyes, and finally letting himself smile.

_If you weren't real I would make you up  
now_


End file.
